


Bite the Bullet

by Eulerami



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chaptered, Chronic Illness, Crime, Detective Noir, Drag Racing!!!, Drug/Alcohol Use and Addiction, Eventual/Slow-Burn Romance, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, M/M, Mystery, Nudity/Sex, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Racist/Homophobic Language, Story Reinterpretation/Reimagining, Undercover, depression/suicidal thoughts, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulerami/pseuds/Eulerami
Summary: Troy Bradshaw is an undercover detective trapped in a town he doesn't belong, set to the task of infiltrating the newly-formed gang, the 3rd Street Saints. Led by household name and vigilante Julius Little, his agreement with Troy is simple: oversee the dissolution, or worse, of all four rival gangs walking the streets of Stilwater once and for all, and they can both walk away in the end. Troy's resolve is challenged, however, when he saves the life of a spirited newcomer of the Saints, forcing him to reconsider which side he stands with in the pursuit of doing the right thing.This is a retelling and re-imagining of the original Saints Row written from Troy's perspective. It explores his struggles, touches on his past and life before the Saints, and where it all might lead.[This is a redone version of my previous work. Some plot details have been changed.]
Relationships: Male Boss (Saints Row)/Troy Bradshaw
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Divine Intervention

_"Ya' ever see the future in someone else's eyes?"_

Church bells boomed overhead.

It was a hollow, resonant sound, and it never failed to startle me.

I puffed on my last smoke, inhaling until my throat burned, staring at the dirty stained glass and the scuffed murals left to rot in lakeside antiquity. The bells tolled, but that righteous racket never brought me any sense of sanctuary, not in lieu of the broken bottles and syringes crunching under my sneakers.

Nevermind my pocket of .44s, or my sidearm with the filed-off serial, either.

Once upon a time, circa 1950, these holy halls were packed to the gills with upper-middle class observers, or so I heard, until a new Federal law or two opened the doors to a few-too-many undesirables in the following years. Doing the neighborly, Christian thing, they packed up for greener pastures, and left economic fallout in their wake. Now, it was equal parts eyesore as it was _sad,_ all of the Row’s rejects inevitably taking refuge under its gabled, storm-battered roof. The only reason it didn’t come at a price was because there was nothing left to sell anymore.

I guess I never did reach far enough into my heart, or my wallet, for any of it to really sit right with me.

I flicked my eyes habitually at my watch, the second hand ticking away. _Midnight._ There was something fitting about that; it lined up perfectly with the self-appointed boss of the 3rd Street Saints' specialty brand of melodramatic bullshit. With knitted brows, I unholstered my model 629 revolver, feeling far more reassured by its weight in my hand than those chunks of brass upstairs giving me a migraine. Loading six smudged cartridges into the chamber, one after the other, I emptied my lungs of dry smoke.

“...We don’t have time to be fuckin’ _around,_ here, man.” I reminded the empty chapel, the strain in my voice crackling in the pews like tired radio static. The candlelight played in the corners, warm shadows dancing eerily over the headless angel resigned to a veil of cobwebs, finding company beside my jagged silhouette.

“Got somewhere to be?” A husky voice badgered, peppered with just enough reproach to press a nerve. These were _his halls,_ an inherited legacy of a different time, and all he had left to his name and faded glory. Julius Little came around the corner, smoothing out his collar, golden crucifix and chains dangling at his neck. He always carried himself simply, if not modest for an OG—tall, dark, and with a certain glint in his cold, dark eyes. There was a lifetime of knowledge locked behind that gaze, things I knew he was eager to pass on and make exist outside the realm of his memories, despite all the brusque words and dispositions that might suggest otherwise. Now, his age was starting to show in the flecks of silver at his temples, and for all his years and rep, I’d have pictured the Devil himself to be a _bisel more original._

“Well, Troy.” He dismissed, “Don’t let me keep ya’.”

I had enough dirt on him to send him back to the pen for the rest of his life. Part of the deal, though _—one of the many stipulations on an ever-growing list of demands—_ was that at the end of that puke and piss-filled tunnel, I'd have done my job, and Julius Little would walk away a free man. I knew none of it was happening without my hands getting dirty, and my only problem bigger than staring down 20-to-life was that Julius _knew it, too._

It was a classic case of mutually-assured destruction, and he went all-in on those odds.

“Let’s just get this over with.” I got the sense the trembling in my hands betrayed my best attempt at sounding like a hardass, because Julius’ lips upturned into a _fucked-up smirk._ Clicking the barrel into place, I returned it to my belt, reaching for my phone and flipping it open to my stoner-turned-informant’s text.

_He was more-or-less just my weed dude, now._

“VK were spotted off the corner of 5th.” I reiterated. “...They probably got girls with ‘em; my guess is, they’re tryin’ ta’ set up shop. Now, my guy’s sayin’ —”

Julius was already seeing himself out of the main corridor, leaving me to bark at the wall, his black coat splaying out behind him. I pocketed my phone when I heard his dissipating steps, leaning off the dusty pew and sighing irritably between my teeth. At that point, I was well-acquainted with his selective hearing.

Coming down the stone stairs, Julius’ voice joined the crickets in the quiet, damp air of late spring. “You plannin’ to talk about it all night, or actually do somethin’ about it? Now’s our chance.” I inevitably followed down the sidewalk, closing our distance so he wouldn’t be shouting his master plans for half the town to hear, huffing on my cigarette in the hope it would keep the jitters down. “They wanna’ move in on _my streets, my neighborhood?_ I don’t fuckin’ think so.” He was livid, but he kept it subdued in baritone, the announcement making me overly aware of the empty streets. “They’ll think twice about showin’ their faces here.”

  
“What about King?” I harped flatly, watching one streetlight after another streaking over his back as I matched his brisk pace.

“You let me worry about Benjamin.”

“I’m _just sayin’,_ Julius—”

“And _I’m sayin’,_ I’ll handle it.” He interrupted, bluntly, looking over his shoulder at me. “I don’t wanna’ hear another word about it; we clear?”

I felt my eyes narrowing in defiant exasperation, closing my lips around the cigarette. Julius stopped and stared at me, challengingly, studying my face intently for a waver he _sure as shit_ wasn’t going to find, intent on not letting me go one night without playing those games. Eventually, he grunted to himself, tilting his head—and I recognized that goading look already. “No use in _hiding it,_ son.”

“I ain’t _scared.”_ I spat.

“Scared _shitless.”_

“I said I ain’t fuckin’ _scared,_ a’ite? We got a handful of _kids_ and King’s got a fuckin’ _army,_ and ya’ wanna’ go shootin’ up his crew—just the _two of us?_ We pulled off crazy shit before, Jules, but _this?_ This’s fuckin’ _stupid.”_

“You wanna’ go home?” He pressed, and I let my head hang, feeling the pressure settling behind my eyes. “Go on back to _wherever-the-fuck_ , I’m sure they’re all waiting with a big, warm welcome. But, if you wanna’ walk down these streets, _our streets, our home,_ and feel the fear you’re feeling now, every day you step out your front door, that’s _your deal._ But me? I’m startin’ this now; _tonight.”_

He took my stale silence as surrender, lifting his chin and resuming his stride.

“That’s what I thought.” He harangued, and I blocked out his shopworn jabs at my dignity. “Now, if you’re done bitchin’, get that thing out; we got a job to do. I need you at your best, son. We don’t know what to expect.”

That shift in his tone was just the right shade of manipulative to have satisfactorily fucked with my head before, and I let him keep it—my fingers brushing the revolver's smooth, wooden handle.

I caught glimpses of blinds closing and lights dimming, a spike of adrenaline spreading down to my fingertips. The Row was usually awake at this hour with all the vices Stilwater had to offer, so the developing silence only meant that _anybody with a brain_ recognized our unelaborate presence in the street, and what our fevered pace meant, given the guestsclosing in on the outskirts.

Julius turned a corner, but then hastily retreated, flagging me down with an outstretched hand. I quieted my stride with gun-in-hand as he pushed his shoulder to the brick, pointing his ear at the road.

“Misty Lane boys,” he murmured, squinting through the dark while I leaned in to listen. _Heightened voices._ I glanced harshly between him and the obscured roadside, only realizing I was clenching my teeth when they started to ache.

_Rollerz, just what we needed: a bunch of suburban tools doing bumps off mommy's car keys._

"...And Vice Kings." Julius exhaled, bemused. "Looks like they got girls with ‘em, too. Good call.”

It surprised me, but I hardened my composure again, trying to get a better look around the corner for myself, but Julius only impeded me with a raised finger. I fidgeted, swapping my weight between either heel— _I needed to see the escorts,_ but he took his sweet time in assessing the situation.

“Shit.” He suddenly hissed, and I didn't ask questions. I pushed past him, gripping the sharp edge of the chipped brick and craning my neck.

Fists flew to heated insults, carried on foul mouths and bloodied faces, unfolding while the instigating can of spray paint rolled away. It was the usual: a bunch of stupid fucks fighting over a block of concrete, and it made no difference to me if they preferred to duke it out in the street, so long as it stayed between them. _Knowing the chance of that, though,_ my fingers flexed around the revolver, eyes darting to Julius, who was content to sit back and watch—probably hoping they’d wipe each other out and save us the hassle.

I took my last drag and held it, letting my cigarette drop to the pavement as somewhat of a mental cue that I could _die in the next five minutes_ before stepping out the beaded embers. I hardly got through my breath when the shrill screeching of a set of tires made me jump, the two of us whirling around to face a crimson convertible speeding down the street. Engine roaring and brakes squealing, it was over in _seconds_ as the gunmen pulled their semi-automatics and unleashed a spray of staccato bullets all over the sidewalk. My blood shot cold, jerking back and hugging that disgusting dumpster for dear life, yanking Julius to cover with me.

 _“Carnales!”_ I snapped, holding him accountable for our absolutely _fantastic luck,_ trying to catch a glimpse through the muzzle flares and the smoke and the rattling steel. _“Fuck—_ Julius, we have ta’ _do something!”_

“Shh— _take it easy.”_ He tugged on my arm, _“Stay put.”_ I gritted my teeth as he raised his chin calmly again, my heart pounding as a cacophony of gunshots popped in and out of the screams and bloodshed. The skidding tires returned, and my eyes went wide as the crimson car lost control and crashed into the very same building protecting us from the onslaught. The impact wasso strong, I swear it shook the ground, deafening us with crunching metal and backfiring.

I was on my feet after a sharp inhale, running toward the chaos and abandoning Julius’ warnings behind me. Some fifty yards away, pools of blood and bodies cluttered the street, that fucking spray can still rolling across the blacktop with a body-count higher than half of Stilwater’s baddest, the universality of a frantic— _but not unaccustomed_ —terror erupting in those rundown apartments. I saw a single man escape the carnage, yellow-clad and furious, promptly painting the _Westside Rollerz tag_ in _Westside Rollerz brains_ with a single, tilted bullet. The barrel flash and execution vacuumed the air from my lungs, breath and spit caught in my throat as the Roller toppled to the ground in an instant.

The Vice King banger set his sights on another— _a civilian,_ caught in the crossfire and not flying any colors, shakily regaining consciousness and dragging himself away from the wreck. The way he held his leg implied he’d been hit by the car, and he was unable to stand, his fumbling only drawing more attention to himself.

 _“Wait a minute, you crazy sonofa—”_ Julius commanded, wrenching me back by the shoulder, but I shoved him off me in an explosive fit of panic and bubbling rage so intense I barely heard him. "It’s _too hot_ in there!”

 _I didn’t give a shit,_ and my eyes darted between civvie and assailant, gauging how far they were and how there was no way in hell I could _make it,_ yelling at Julius, or the universe, or _myself as I took off sprinting—_

 _  
_ “He’s gonna’ _kill him!”_

Urgency found my legs, my arms tense and my fingers tight around the gun as I desperately threw up my arm, stabilizing my grip with no way of _getting out of it._ The kid’s back was to the asphalt, hand raised in pleading as his executioner stood over him like that gat was _some extension of his own—_

_“Wrong time, wrong place, dog.”_

My thumb jammed back the hammer, a controlled exhale punctuating that unflinching, thunderous shot.

The force of the bullet threw him to the sidewalk, all the tacky fluorescent yellow drenched in red with the .44’s tennis ball-sized hole blown between his shoulder blades. My ears rang, hand stinging, aim jumping from the guy I’d just _shot in the back_ to the next potential target. But, beyond the fires and the stench of blood, it was clear.

I let my arm slacken, the sharp _bang_ dimming over the blacktop set aglow in sputtering, mismatched streetlights.

_I could only hope it’d be the last._

Julius flew to the side of the injured civvie, rushing to his aid without so much as a wayward glance at our surroundings. “Julius, let’s move!” I barked, but it was his turn to ignore me, far too busy playing savior as he heaved the kid haughtily to his feet. I shook my head in frustration, scanning the alleyway for survivors, half-expecting another wagon full of _Carnales_ to come barreling down that road while their buddies slouched dead in front of me.

I thought I could stomach _“dead”_ far easier than I ever wanted to, but my constitution blanked when my eyes trailed from the dead men surrounded in a peddler’s boosted, knock-off watches to the face of one of the escorts.

_Missing person found._

She was slumped against the window, her leopard print and faux-fur stained in blood after taking two to the chest, head swallowed in a crooked curtain of fake hair. By now, I doubted her grandmother and three-year-old even remembered me coming by, or the report I took from their front porch while stepping over a toy train, or the questions I asked as my face blended into the sea of other apathetic officers, investigators, and press that they’d appealed to for help in finding her.

I was _out-of-state,_ let alone out of _jurisdiction,_ and the case was swept out from under me for SPD to handle. Even though I never made any hardline promises _—since the turnout of these sorts of things was never really that good—_ seeing her there seized the strength from my knees. That sick, sinking feeling kicked me in the chest, prickling my eyes until my vision warped and dampened. I wanted to quit, right then and there. _Fuck it._ But, like always, I only squeezed my gun harder.

 _It sure was fucking tempting to direct all of my reproach at Julius,_ and I slowly dragged my attention away from her and onto him instead.

He was carrying the kid away, since his leg was marred to hell and he could only limp along— _barely_. I caught my breath and cleared my throat, raking back all the shaggy hair sticking to my sweaty forehead in a half-assed effort to keep my shit together. Assuming _lookout,_ I kept the magnumraised, but when I coughed again, something didn’t smell right; the smoke was coming back far thicker than it should’ve been. I turned, _confused—_

  
“Get _down!”_ _  
  
_

The blaze popped the gas tank, all those fumes igniting in a fury of heat, the convertible exploding behind us. The blast unbalanced me, sending the three of us stumbling away in a clumsy tangle, dodging spraying gasoline and shrapnel that blew the doors and trunk open. With our heads covered, and noses smashed into the crooks of our elbows, we shuffled the safest distance away that the kid could handle before his leg gave out and he crumpled to the sidewalk.

I immediately scanned the surrounding infrastructures—all appeared to be abandoned businesses on that corner, without any prying eyes, but the fire department needed to _hurry the fuck up._

Another shattering _pop_ broke the night air, and I could feel that fire’s glare hot on my bare arms, lined in goosebumps. It was a morbid satisfaction, watching those _Carnales_ fucks barbecue down to charcoal in their own car, but it didn’t stop the knot from forming in my throat when I backed away. I overheard Julius’s murmuring somewhere behind me, and turning, I found him kneeling beside our rescue.

The sight twisted my gut in a particular way, out of something I could only describe as _‘revulsion.’_ The kid was sitting on the pavement, absolute horror burrowed in his face as he caught his breath, chest rising and falling and sweating through his crewneck. He was inexplicably calm from the adrenaline high, but _’give it time,’_ I thought. _‘It’ll sink in.’_

He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, and he had a look about him I couldn’t quite place. It was something like a dog who’d been kicked too many times, but was still loyal enough to not have turned yet.

“You’ll be fine.” Julius soothed, as the kid took deep, steady breaths through his teeth, trying to subdue the pain, no doubt anticipating for it to hit him all at once.

_Playin’ tough._

The reality was clear in his glossy eyes, his torn jeans soaked in blood just above the knee. Julius pulled the orange bandanna from the kid's head, releasing a mop of jet black, unwashed hair and pressing the cloth to the wound. “That don’t look so bad,” he overlooked in the standard tone for threatening any poor bastard’s pride. “You should be fine.”

Shakily nodding, he bowed his head as he brought his calloused, dirty hands over the wound when Julius took his own away. “That’s Troy.” He introduced me offhandedly with a pointed thumb, smirking a bit. “You can thank him later.”

  
The kid looked at _me, now—_ his brows raising with some kind of quiet bewilderment. He was putting it together, what I’d just done, and it put me on the spot. I locked my jaw and awkwardly raised a hand— _which still held my gun; don’t point the piece at him, dumbass._

“Uh,” I managed. _“Hey.”_

His reply was another meek nod sent my way, blinking tranquil black eyes, nostrils flaring as he pressed his lips together. My gut started to chime in that maybe _this wasn’t his first rodeo._ It was something about his _look_ , and I began to wonder who the fuck I just killed a man for.

_What was he doing out here?_ _  
  
_

_Native—short and stocky build, with broad, freckled cheekbones and ruddy brown skin. His blocky, hooded eyes matched his hair, a patchy mustache and an even sparser beard sprouting like unkempt wire from his chin._ A full-sleeve tattoo decorated his left arm— _Aztec, or something, so probably Mexican—_ but I couldn’t place it, and I wasn’t sure if it was Carnales-affiliated or not.

I soured at the idea, standing up to my full height as I committed his face to memory alongside the hundreds of other POI’s I’d tucked away over the last two years. I knew what the chances were; it would only be a matter of time before he wound up in trouble again, or worse. By all accounts I prayed I was wrong, if for no other reason than to assure myself I still had some faith left in humanity. It invaded my thoughts in the following moments, the fucked-up question clawing at my brain: why was this kid still breathing, while a trafficked mother lay dead less than a block away?

My answer was written on the blood-spattered walls: I was too fucking slow to save both.

I allowed a cautioned pause as I took a deep breath to right my nerves, one eye on the street, but the other still on the guy still staring timidly at me.

“The Row ain’t safe no more, son. We got gangs fightin’ over shit that ain’t theirs.” Julius painted a virtuous picture, almost rehearsed. I was listening to his carefully-spun tirade with just as much interest as the kid, but while Julius spoke he and I ended up locking eyes again. It wasn’t quite gratitude.

_Killing kids on the sidewalk, that was Benjamin King’s MO, huh? Did Julius plan on telling him that he had some sort of code of honor with the Boss of the guy that just tried to blow his brains out? Did any of that make it into his sermon?_

Disdain burned silently in my chest. I couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, because the calm reverence settling in his gaze kicked up something antsy and wildly excruciating in me; _it was the last fucking thing I needed._ I turned my head sharply, focusing instead on the street, restlessly twitching through a pounding heart.

“...And, with you in their way?” Julius continued, “They don’t care if you’re representin’ or not.”

 _“Julius.”_ I interjected, irritably, knowing damn well where this was going. “This’s no time to _recruit.”_

He turned back to me, contentious. “We need all the help we can get, son.”

  
“No,” I snipped back, “we need to get our asses _outta’ here.”_

The sirens wailed in the distance, echoing over the buildings. I knew they were coming over the bridge, and I almost wished they’d show a modicum of punctuality. Bust the whole thing open right now, why not?

_God, I needed a drink—or something a whole lot fucking stronger._

“In a minute!” There was that tone of his again, masked in all the smooth delivery. “Look, the Row’s got a problem. Come to the church when you want to be part of the solution.”

With that, Julius rose from his crouched position, and I stayed close on his tail. We hurried across cracked asphalt, outrunning the smoke, turning a corner down an alleyway with the ruined church a somber waypoint.

“Why’s LC here?” Julius asked me, as if I’d still know. “Lopez Sr. was one cruel motherfucker, but he knew when and where to step. Seems his boys are gettin’ nervous.”

“Yo, _hey—”_ I interrupted between breaths as I jogged, glancing behind me nervously. “Is—is he gonna’ be _a’ite?_ Ya’ can’t just _leave him.”_

“Go back if you want.” Julius shook his head, the sirens growing louder, joined by a firetruck. “The kid’ll be fine.”

“The cops are comin’, man—what if they think he was involved? What if they pick him up?”

“You _tell me.”_ He jabbed, and I bristled, my neck immediately heating beneath a suffocating collar. “If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t stick around.”

“He’s hurt _bad,_ Julius, _I don’t—”_

“Then it’s your problem.” I raised an eyebrow as we turned another corner, legs slowing to an amble. I could barely see him in the diffused moonlight, overshadowed by the alley, but he approached me with that condescending, unblinking front that curdled my blood. “You wanted to be a _hero;_ you gotta’ learn that not everyone you save will be _good,_ or _strong enough._ I don’t have time to babysit every basket-case I come across. If he makes it, he makes it, and if he’s got it in him, we’ll see him on our doorstep. Consider it a second chance.”

“...So, _that’s it?”_ I reaffirmed, shrugging audaciously and squinting. “Wash our hands, be done with it? Y’know he saw our faces, right? Ya’ told him _my fuckin’ name,_ but not yours? Real fuckin’ convenient how that shit works, huh? What if he’s LC, and he goes right back and tells ‘em I’m _still around_ and runnin’ with a different crowd now, huh? What if SPD, NYPD, or—or worse, _the FBI, the DEA,_ finds out what I’ve been up to way out here in _Isle-De-Bumfuck,_ and we both get _the clink,_ huh?”

“You really think that boy’s a banger?” He slowed, staring at me until I had to look away. “...The world’s made you a bitter man, Troy. Wait ‘til you see the rest of it, ‘cuz you’re only just gettin’ started.”

I hated that he knew when I was _blowing smoke,_ because it zapped the fortitude out of my words. He blinked, his disposition softening into something more understanding—apologetic, even, and I loathed that even more. “Listen to me. Next time I want something done a certain way, I expect you to hear me out. I been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, son; one wrong step, and somebody gets shot, you know that. I need you to have _my back_ in this, especially now. We’ll get what we want, but you have to trust me.”

“...Yeah, man.” I muttered, compulsively scratching the back of my head. It was all I could say. “Whatever.”

 _“‘Whatever’_ nothin’. You did good here tonight; you did the right thing.” He followed that up by bringing a hand to my shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. The sudden warmth in his voice made me scoff, and I shifted awkwardly. “But, you’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

I raised my head again, studying his face, his eyes creased in a subtle pride. After a pat, he nudged me. “C’mon,” he murmured, reassuringly, fatigue creeping into his voice. “Let’s go home.”

The tension subsided in my arms, and I allowed a long, shuddering exhale to leave my nose. The worry still welled from the pit of my gut as the anger cooled, and I paused before turning, expecting to see _him_ there, propped against the building and having followed us back like a _lost puppy,_ looking on aghast as the shock took hold.

But, I only saw a dead street, studded in corpses and blanketed in smoke, without any sign of that freckled kid. 


	2. Civilian

I was lulled into a scant four hours of shut-eye by my rattling air-conditioner working overtime, providing my asbestos-lined, one-bedroom shotgun house some reprieve from Lake Michigan's wrath. Everything made sense in those blank, cozy moments spent flattened on my couch, and I didn’t feel the usual ache in my bones I’d grown so accustomed to facing every morning. Still, I braced myself for the same, tired shit: _the runny nose, the shakes, the burning bladder…_ it was about as fun as it sounded. 

A strident chime compromised the retreat of my living room, wrenching me from fragile placidity and _reminding me to change that fucking ringtone, already._ It kick-started my heart pounding out of my chest, worsened by the night sweats that matted my hair into a tangled, crunchy rat’s nest sticking to my face, with all of the standard bullshit hitting me like a truck in the following seconds. _Right on schedule._

I could only groan through it, fairly convinced my temple was vibrating on top of the cushion it was pressed against. Peeling myself from the corded upholstery, I dragged my numb hand across the floor, swarming in pins and needles, pawing for my phone on the glass coffee table beside me. In my blind sweep, my wrist knocked into the clutter, my keys jingling as they hit the floor. I tried to get some leverage to reach further, pushing out a knee, only to promptly bang it on the table’s edge in my clumsy haste. 

_“Motherf—”_ I grunted _—that woke me up,_ shoving it away with my foot. A forgotten stack of paperwork tipped and careened across the carpet, lit by the glow of my muted CRT and early morning infomercials. I heard every file scatter as the pages fluttered, finally finding my phone and flipping it open. Squeezing my eyes shut to the obnoxious screen, I brought it to my ear. 

_“Hello?”_ I croaked, imbuing my dry mouth with scorn. 

_“Bradshaw, it's me. What’s going on?"_

“...Ya' know what _fuckin’ time it is?” The sun wasn’t even up yet, which sure as shit meant I wasn’t supposed to be._ “...5:00, Rich, a'ight? Whattaya’ want? What happened?” 

_“I have a meeting with Mayor Winslow in an hour, and I need a rundown on that shooting down on 5th. If the press ain’t filled in they’re gonna’ go sniffing around.”_

_It wasn’t my job to brief him;_ I had enough to answer for as far as my own agency was concerned. While my thoughts regrouped, I cleared my throat lightly and switched the phone to the other ear, leaning up from the cushions. “...I thought this was _uh—uh,”_ I tripped over my own words, trying to remember the douchebag’s name. “... _Marquette;_ I thought _he_ got that one; I saw him clearin' the scene on the news. Ya' gotta' talk ta' him about it." 

_“The good Commander left out a couple key details…Since you were there and he wasn’t, I want another opinion. Saints Row’s near and dear to Winslow. He’s not gonna’ just let it go.”_

“I ain’t testifying, Rich; I’ll get _shot.”_

_“Off the record. I just want the truth.”_

_The truth was_ that his head of the Investigative Department had never worked this shit a day in his life, but he was very eager to _look_ like he did. It didn’t help that he had a teenage niece up in Misty Lane with a penchant for ketamine and frat boys. 

“...VK and Rollerz.” I told him. “Carnales saw an opportunity and took it. They're good for that, but this was outta' network. I got no clue how they knew they’d find 'em there. Someone must’ve tipped ‘em off, or they got eyes on the Row. The woman caught in the crossfire was—” 

_“Missing person, right. Elder Williams informed the family last week.”_ The thought of SPD’s _very white, very loaded_ chaplain delivering the news, hat in hand from that front porch brought a bitter taste to my mouth. _“How’re we doing on suspects?”_

“They shot each other.” I snorted. “Not a soul got outta' that mess.” 

_Well, except for one, but I wasn't about to tell him that._

Monroe made a sound that insinuated it _wasn’t_ _exactly_ what he wanted to hear, and like most manifestations of Midwestern disappointment, I was unwillingly acclimated to its particular flavor of vacant, passive aggression. 

_“Alright_ .” He replied. _“I’ll handle it.”_

“...I’m workin’ on somethin' right now, Rich." I offered, lowering my voice. "I’ll get ya' addresses. I need time.” 

_“You’ve had nothing but time. Whatever that shit is, it's killing people by the truckload. I want it found."_ The frustration was clear, but he still chewed through his words, ending our conversation with an abrupt: _“Stay in touch.”_

I listened to the line drop, lowering the phone. I wanted to _throw it,_ clapping it shut in a sleepy grip, but I practiced some restraint and calmly set it down. I’d barely slept; a stiff neck, cottonmouth, and the film of dried sweat coating me was testament to that, no matter what I tried. Maybe it was because I couldn’t stop thinking, _not even for a night,_ and the _forty-three active cases_ I juggled from a suitcase didn’t help. Stacks of files and mismanaged paperwork occupied every available horizontal surface in what I’d like to believe was organized chaos, the coffee stains ringing my personal notebook completing the cliché. 

Reveling in my mess, I glimpsed the cardstock folder and the mugshot paperclipped to the inside flap. I didn’t need to see her face or any of the contents of that case file to be reminded of what it was. With coherency gradually returning, I found myself reaching for it and closing the file with a gentle touch. 

Leaning forward, with my arms tracked out over my knees, I inhaled deeply and let my face sink into my hands. 

I could hear the clock ticking from my kitchen awning. I hated that thing, but sleeping in total silence unnerved me, and Stilwater could be eerily quiet. I kept my palms there until I saw stars behind my eyelids, eventually lifting my heavy head and easing myself to stand. 

Shuffling barefoot into my narrow kitchen, I avoided the half-exposed tacstrip with reflexive precision as I reached for the stove light. The mindlessness involved in filling a coffee pot with tap gave me enough time to return to the present, all the details of the previous week illuminating in a hazy sequence. Scooping coffee grounds into the filter, I recalled the same headline that emblazoned my days for the last two years: _three problems._

The machine sputtered and dripped, and I blinked through my headache, deciding my own funk didn’t blend well with the coffee smell as I headed for the bathroom. 

I stood in the shower spray, forehead propped against a sloped ceiling, too tall for it to sit properly above me. Running my fingers through my hair and dislodging the knots, I let the barely-warm water cascade over my face, still desperately trying to get my body to respond. I just couldn’t get away with that shit anymore; all-nighters didn’t sit as well with a twenty-seven-year-old metabolism as it did the previous year, or the year before that. _Then again—_ I considered, as I peered through the clear curtain at my congested sink and all the prescription bottles that were too bulky for the cabinet— _there was a lot less shit to deal with back then._ Stilwater worked tirelessly to kick the shit out of me. 

Turning the dial, I tracked wet footprints back into the kitchen, dabbing my bloodshot eyes and the puffy bags beneath, approaching the window and peeking through the dusty blinds. 

_Nautical twilight;_ the sole boon of this town. 

  
Over the dark water, the horizon bled a thousand, breathtaking shades of pink and orange. Pillars of steam clouded overhead from the _Black Bottom_ factory district, a car alarm blaring somewhere in the distance through the fog. It was _sleepy,_ if nothing else, and it was almost too hard to believe what lurked beneath that wine-colored sky. I _sure as shit_ knew it was the last place I expected to find a seasoned drug ring with two major cartel ties dominating the Great Lakes region. But, that was the trick with small towns—cute, charming even, on the surface, but the real run-off of society always found their way there, and found the best ways to exploit it. 

It made me chuckle. _What’d that say about me, then?_

Seeing those streets alight in a place where all leadership had _abandoned ship,_ it stirred a defensiveness in me I never wanted, not for this place. The loneliness of dying out there, just like that—nobody should have to face that, and yet, it was one of the ways we all might go. 

I was already pouring my coffee when the machine beeped, my breakfast of champions a cocktail of horse pills that I downed with several overly-conscientious gulps. Returning to my couch, after having allocated pants for the day, I set to work. Juggling three gangs on top of the Saints required three separate piles of expedited hair loss on my coffee table. 

Something had changed in Julius since our _deal,_ and I had every intention of finding out what that was. Not for the department, or for my job, but _for my own fucking sanity._

_“Why don’t you do it now? You have enough evidence. The DA has enough for a prosecution; they’ll work with you on this.” Carmen Costa, head of IT for the city, asked me with some incredulousness in her voice. I looked down at my new, fabricated identity, and my new, fabricated life waiting for me in that brown paper folder. Even back then, I knew what I was getting myself into as far as Julius was concerned. Every time he fell on hard times after his parole, evidence vanished, testimonies redacted, footage disappeared, and stories changed. Chief Monroe told me to leave it alone. Do better._

I wanted to think _ol’_ _Chief Dick_ was a _better_ person once, whatever that meant in this town. It wasn’t his proudest moment, having to lean on some rookie detective out of Brooklyn to take care of his own backyard after thirty years on the force. Egos be damned, it’d gotten out of hand, and his back was to the wall. He couldn’t even trust his own deputy, let alone City Council. With the election on the horizon, and Mayor Winslow’s running competition the capitalist gold-standard in human form, Chief Monroe wanted to make Alderman Richard Hughes the happiest man in Stilwater, in exchange for a cushy retirement in obscurity— _and maybe a K-9 Unit._

I came here chasing a drug ring whose garbage wound up in my borough, _nothing else_ . Yet, it was on the back-burner; it’d been awhile since I tangoed with the Lopez family. Now, Los Carnales were showing their faces in the Row, a year after their patriarch’s untimely end… _and my series of royal fuck-ups._

I fiddled with my chewed pen, left palm flattened over the paper pad while my right sifted through dates and colored tabs. My report was, at best, _a paragraph_ —my attention inevitably yanked to all that was _Carnales._ Those papers were hand-written in sloppy, blue ballpoint, corners dog-eared and yellowed. Everything about it was far more _'diary'_ than it was _'report,’_ and I recalled how _seven months could feel like a lifetime._

I took a cigarette in my lips, lighting it as the sun streaked through the blinds, taking a deep breath and flipping through the pages. Despite the urgency of killer designer drugs, the Vice Kings took priority over our Carnales friends. 

_Women were disappearing left and right all over the island._

Photographs, likeness sketches, testimonies…I got lost in my previous reports and newspaper clippings. Everything within a forty-mile radius praised Benjamin King. He schmoozed with SPD, Mayor Winslow, and even Judge Melmack herself, holding significant sway at City Hall and a fixed attendee at every Sunday cookout. Multiple charities, fundraisers, and donations carried his name, from schools, to libraries, to hospitals. His prominent record label company shot hometown sweethearts to fame from the Michigan sticks.

For all that glitter, there was also the _trafficking_ , the _racketeering_ , and the _violence…_ but, oh, _excuse me_ — _that’s not him,_ as Julius so curtly informed. _That’s his right-hand man, Warren._

I breathed another long drag, waving the smoke from my line of vision. As I reached for the top file, my annoying ringtone broke my concentration again. Sighing and looking around, _not seeing it,_ I realized it came from under me. Flattening my lips to keep my cig in place, I raised the couch cushion, prying my phone from the wedge. 

I let it ring one more time to mentally prepare myself, before pressing the button. 

“...Hello?” 

_“Where the hell are you?”_

“I just _got up.”_ I put on my best act of startled fatigue, scratching my forehead. “... _Why?_ ‘Sup?” 

" _It’s about noon.”_

 _Shit—seriously?_ “Yeah, uh,” I drawled, nonchalantly. “Had a _long night.”_

_“Did you fuck up?”_

_“No,_ man.” I snapped, sharp disgust seizing my words. _Fuck you._ “I had a _girl over,_ not like that’s any of your fuckin’ business, Julius.” _Is that what I’m calling cheap weed and paperwork, now?_

 _“Get your shit together.”_ He interrupted, patronizing. _“I need you down at the church.”_

“Why—what’s goin’ on?” I did my damndest to mask the animosity in my tone. Glancing at the floorboards, I took another drag and waited through his pause. 

_“I’m getting the crew together. I got a plan, and I want you here when I tell it.”_

“A'ight,” I said, tossing the cushion back onto the couch. “Just—uh, gimme’ a _couple minutes.”_

 _“Fine.”_ He said in his usual, blunt way. _“See you in a few.”_

Taking the phone from my ear, I stared at it, before thumbing the worn, plastic key with a light beep. 

_I was definitely getting sick of the phone calls._

Yanking a T-shirt over my head, I smoothed out my gold necklace and clasped my favorite bracelet, _deciding to give a shit today,_ fighting with my overgrown, _wannabe surfer hair_ and scraggly goatee. The sun had only made me blonder, _somehow,_ and with the white shirt and blanched denim I looked redder than a fucking lobster, but I liked to think it made my pasty ass less conspicuous.

 _I lived on the beach; who cared if it was smack in the middle of one of the continent’s coldest regions._ _  
_ _A beach was a beach._

The .44 rested on the table, and tucking it into my belt clip, I pocketed some extra bullets, hoping they'd stay there. After lacing my sneakers, I locked up, heading out into a baking parking lot. 

My sole reprieve from Stilwater waited for me from between two faded parking lines, the gorgeous _‘plum-crazy’_ 1970 _Hammerhead_ glimmering in the sun and lifting my spirits in a rare moment of giddiness. It was the only reminder I had left of my dumb, teenage adulations before I became _the cop, the narcotraficante, or the burnout._ It was also fairly arrogant sitting among the other ghetto starships lining the lot, but nobody dared break my windows. The purple spoke for itself, at least in this neighborhood. _But, for how long?_

Unlocking it, I sat down, the seats already scorching to the touch. I avoided searing myself on the seatbelt clasp, keeping my arm raised as I started the ignition. It roared to life, settling into a hum that was positively melodic. It’d been far too long since I took it for a proper spin, and on a nice day like this, with an open window, going 65 with no place to be? I was tempted to hit the road and just keep going, but— _’oh, yeah.”_ I remembered. _‘I’m on a goddamn island.’_

Shrugging the daydream away, I found the shifter and eased out of the lot. 

The church wasn’t far; I could’ve walked to 3rd Street, but the drive was nice. There were worse places to live than Mission Beach, and I actually enjoyed its weathered shabbiness. The streets blurred by, the rumble of my car drawing the occasional passerby stare or nod. I couldn’t exactly call myself a _people-person,_ because getting to know the neighbors beyond cataloguing them in my head seemed like a waste of time. The local fuss following the shoot-out last week had abated by the following morning, but not because SPD had actually cleared the scene dutifully, or anything. Folk were just that accustomed to seeing bodies lie there in the sun for way too long, sometimes hours after the fact. 

It was just another day in Stilwater. 

Nearing the church, I pulled up along the sidewalk, peering over the neglected hedges to the cemetery. Every Saint to our name was gathered there, and once they were put all in one spot like that, _they sure as hell weren’t much._ Killing the engine, I sat back in my seat and reached for a cigarette, watching them chat, drink, and horse around under a cloud of skunk. The majority were kids that hailed from the Row, some new faces, but all of them full of piss and vinegar and eager to prove themselves. They were humble, though, and cherished their roots. That part separated them from the rest. 

My door creaked shut with a heavy slam as I crossed the concrete with my smoke, already roasting alive in the humid air and beaming sun directly overhead. Dex conversed with folded arms, his keen eyes settled off into space beneath the shadow of his crooked visor, Johnny enthusiastically arm-wrestling some poor bastard whose entire day was about to be ruined. Gat was a good kid, so long as he was pointed in the right direction in his path of chaos. Dex was something else— _a kiss-ass, mostly_ —but his inexperience would keep him from ever becoming too much of a problem. 

Standing at the foot of the church’s stairs, I propped against the cool, graffiti-streaked stone, smoking and observing. Julius was taking his sweet time despite all the _attitude,_ and I wondered what grand announcement we were in for this time. I kicked around the idea of going inside to summon the old man, but a figure crossing the bleached asphalt caught my attention. Craning my neck, I squinted over the _congregation._

_No fucking way._

_Sagging cargos, braid dangling from a rust-colored bandana, muscling through a limp…_ It was the Native kid from the other night, unassumingly rounding the cemetery wall and hoping nobody would notice. I looked on earnestly, dread and a weird sense of _relief_ warring in my chest as he looked up apprehensively, and we _sure as shit_ locked gazes again. The tension in my expression mirrored his, his eyebrows lifting as he realized I’d caught his ass sneaking around. Just as I opened my mouth to call out and confront him, I was startled by a sudden hand on my shoulder. I whirled around to face Julius, shambling aside as he smirked and stepped into view of the gathering. 

“Every motherfucking here knows what we need to do.” He began, silence settling. “Now, those bitches be ridin’ around here, thinkin’ they own these streets. I don’t care what flags they flyin’—Rollerz, Carnales, Vice Kings…”

As he talked, I couldn’t take my eyes off the kid. He stuck out like a sore thumb, orange plaid in a sea of fucking purple, shoulders squared, head raised, and a controlled eagerness in his eyes. There was almost a sphere of belonging around him, and I knew what came next _wasn’t going to be pretty._

An ironclad resolve moved into Julius’ voice, delivered with conviction. “We about to lock this shit down, right now.” The Saints erupted into cheers, each disjointed upheaval more aggressively optimistic than the last. 

“Fuck yeah!” Johnny added with authoritative volume, turning to see how his charm had resonated, gaining some approving nods. I fidgeted as Johnny stalled, staring down the kid. _Great._ “...Hey, who the fuck’s this guy?” 

“Troy and I found him,” Julius enlightened. He didn’t even have to _rub it in;_ I heard it in his voice as I balled my fists. “We wanna’ see if he’ll ride with us.” 

I watched the kid, his back straightening and eyes narrowing into a cautious display of machismo as he and Johnny scrutinized each other, the latter sizing him up with a cocky bob of his head. “Julius, if he wants to roll with the Saints, he’s gotta' be canonized!” 

“Hey, he’s right, Julius.” I interjected, speaking over the murmuring crowd. _I knew it was personal; I didn’t want to see that fucking kid again, and I didn’t want to think about that night. It was written all over him, from that look in his eyes to the limp he carried._ “Everyone had to do it.” 

Julius glanced at me, _vacillating_ like he’d forgotten his own rule of the land, but my voucher was all he needed. He turned to the newcomer, lifting his chin. “You ready for this, playa’?” 

Cracking his neck, he widened his stance and _got those fists up._ Barfighting would only work if he could deliver on the brutality. 

The jungle-gym bodybuilders closing in were at least a foot taller than him, but what he lacked in height he made up for in weight. He was built like a construction worker, or some kind of laborer, and _it might be what got him through this._

They goaded him, harassing and urging him to throw a punch, but he wouldn’t do it. He retreated a few steps, keeping his fists beneath his chin. 

_“Shit…_ he’s gonna’ run!” I overheard one teasing. 

“Oh, yeah.” Another whistled, the kid backing away still until his heel brushed the weeping angel statue. He looked up at us, focusing on Julius as he stoically supervised, and then _me,_ as I waited for it to all be over from the shade. 

“Don’t look at ‘em, lookit me!” They blustered. 

“Why don’t you run home to _mami?”_ One very large, college sweatshirt clad, Midwestern-potato suggested. “Tell her I’ll be over soon!” 

The kid’s nose wrinkled, teeth bared, and he swung— _ouch, first punch comes from the kid—_ delivering on that strength and landing a sickening _smack_ against the jaw of the other. The unsuspecting Saint fell flatly on his ass, stunned and disoriented, throwing out an arm to brace the tombstone. The crowd _erupted_ into laughter and jeers, chanting now for an immediate _ass-whooping,_ and I bounced my knee anxiously. 

The slug hurt the kid’s hand, I could tell, keeping it close to his body as he backed away and attempted to side-step, but that leg injury was killing him. Knocking into another Saint, he swung, striking him with that mean hook again, but it did little against the much taller dude now that they were prepared. 

I grimaced, furrowing my brows as I watched them exchange blows. 

_I took the beating of my life in that same patch of clover flowers—sweating, miserable, and smack in the middle of DT. I fell back on tried-and-true boxing, avoiding any Academy holds lest I give myself away, Julius observing sanctimoniously from the same step he stood on now. He was far more interested, and daresay amused by how I nearly beat a guy to a pulp back then. Maybe the old man’s New Years Resolution involved growing a conscience and leaving the prison yard hazing days behind him._

When I looked up again, my short-lived disdain had immediately vanished in a jolt of worry. 

_Shit._

They had the kid pinned down, trading punches, knocking him hard over the back of the head and sending him staggering into the statue. He grabbed onto it, shaking the dizziness away, but before he could orient himself he was snatched up into a choke-hold. I grit my teeth, stepping forward— 

”Jules, call ‘em off!” 

Julius glanced at me, signaling for me to wait. I fidgeted in place, too anxious and focused to argue. It hurt to watch; several punches to the gut, to the ribs— _he took them like a champ—_ before he was released and sent dropping to a knee, the gang piling on him with such force and voracity that it spiraled into a fucking disaster in seconds. I knew Julius could sense the bloodlust rising as they kicked and berated him long after he was down, the crowd growing rowdier and _angrier._

“That’s enough!” Julius demanded, his voice carrying. They backed away, _thank God,_ calming their nerves and wiping the sweat from their faces, the laughter and shouting dissipating. The kid lay face down on the pavement, head tucked into his arm, back rising and falling with shuddering breaths.

_His pride probably hurt a lot worse._

I watched everyone stand around him with their _thumbs up their asses,_ hissing to myself and urgently descending the stairs. Crossing the sidewalk and coming to his side, I shot my nastiest glare at Dex, hovering there with his fists at his sides, pretending I didn’t just _see him_ get in on the action. Ignoring him, I crouched beside the kid, lifting him gingerly by the shoulders. 

“Hey— _hey man,_ ya’ a'ight? Ya’ _conscious?”_ I inhaled when he raised his head, avoiding looking at me, snot and blood streaking his reddened cheeks, the swelling starting already. “Give him some air, c’mon! _Christ,_ show’s over! _”_ I snapped at the others, who immediately balked and retreated. “Don’t think I don’t see your fuckin’ _punk asses,_ back up! ... _C’mon,_ ” I urged him quietly, trying to hurry this along and buffer some of the shame. “On your feet; we all went through that.”

Wincing, he bit back the pain and lifted a trembling arm, taking my offered hand in a sure grip. Heaving him up, he sucked in a breath through his teeth as he got his good leg under him, wobbling dizzily and regaining his balance. His dry, busted lips settled into a line, dark eyes calm and steady like the night we found him, breathing through a bloodied nose. 

_I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking._

_For some stupid reason, I thought an ass-beating would send him packing._

“Blood in, blood out.” Johnny murmured cryptically, dipping in and shooting him a coy look from beneath his rosy shades. Julius soon stepped between us and extended a congratulatory fist, the kid tiredly raising his own. 

“Welcome to the 3rd Street Saints.” The proud simper that creased Julius’ cheek boiled my blood, and he gestured for the rabble to gather around again. 

I could only puff on my cigarette, heart pounding as our newest recruit smiled, albeit subtly. Julius’ approval made him beam with confidence, no matter how bad he was hurting. He wiped the blood from his nose and sniffed through it, his shoulders untensing as the other Saints got in close again. 

“Let’s get down to business,” Julius proceeded, a twinge of weariness moving into his voice. “If we’re serious about taking back the Row, we gotta’ let those mothers know what time it is.” He paused, looking to each of our own individually. “Now, you break it down, and it’s all about respect. Get enough of it, and they’re gonna back off, and we’re gonna’ move right on in.” 

I hung my head, staring at my shoes and the ashes dropping to the cracked sidewalk. Anything he said stopped being inspirational a long time ago. 

“We got some friends in town that could use some help. Give ‘em a hand. Course, you can always drop a motherfucker wearing the wrong flags. So long as word gets out the Saints are on the Row, I don’t give a damn how you do it. You feel me?” 

There was a collective nod of understanding among the Saints, banding back together into their cliques, volume returning to our numbers. The big guy that the kid dropped earlier gave him a playful nudge, his expression apologetic. I watched them as they appeared to make amends, before Julius tapped me on the back again. 

“What’d I tell ya’?” He mused. “I knew he’d be back.” 

“...Yeah.” I muttered, flicking the filter away and exhaling smoke. “Got his ass kicked.” 

“Says a lot about a man that can take a hit, wouldn’t you say?” 

I scoffed, “Yeah, a'ight—that some ‘turn the other cheek’ bullshit?” 

“Far from it.” He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a money clip and swiping a $100 bill from it, presenting it to me between pinched fingers. “Go get him set up with what he needs; I doubt that boy’s ever held a piece in his life.” 

I sighed, taking it. “Yeah, I’ll tell him not to spend it _all at once.”_

Looking over my shoulder, I expected to see the kid still standing there, but just like our first encounter _he’d wandered off._ I scanned the cemetery and the street, eventually catching him limping back the way he came, his head held a little bit higher than before. 

“H-Hey!” I called, Julius chuckling to himself as I swore and hiked up my jeans, jogging after him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Troy uses a Smith & Wesson revolver, obviously it's the Shepherd gun in the game. His Hammerhead (changed from a Vegas,) is still a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda AAR in Plum Crazy. AKA - a fantastic car. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the expansion I've done with Stilwater and SPD. It was based on several real cities and towns I've been stuck in.


	3. Speak When Spoken To

“Hey, _New Guy!_ Hold up a sec’!” 

_Damn, he was fast._

I chased him down in a seedy parking lot, my stamina waning into graceless panting by the time I’d caught up. He gave me his best _deer-in-the-headlights_ impression and backed up into his car door, lowering his gaze and eyeing me anxiously.

“Ya’ can’t…just… _take off,_ like ‘at, a’ight?” I restrained my sweaty hair, coughing through the burn, getting a lung-full of the open dumpster’s fumes. “...Ya’ need set up with some shit, first. Ya’ got a phone? A _uh_ , a burner? Somethin’ only for this sorta’ thing?” 

_I was talking with my hands again,_ but I cut myself short when I realized he still hadn’t moved. He was fixated on that wide crack in the pavement between his feet as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Wondering what his _deal was,_ I impatiently pressed: “...What’sa _matter?”_

_Nothing,_ not even a nod, but I knew he wasn’t deaf _._ The charades were beginning to _irk me,_ and too overheated to interpret that shit, I aggressively dipped in closer. “Hey—I’m _talkin’ ta’ you.”_

My jagged tone got his attention, and raising my brows pointedly at him, I enunciated myself clearer. “C’mon, man, this shit ain’t no joke. Nobody’s gonna’ respect you covered in your own _fuckin’ blood,_ a’ight? You’re representin’, now. Keep yourself looked after.” 

Something about seeing this guy bleeding twice in one week pressed a nerve, but once I heard how my own voice sounded in light of those events, I backed off and gave him some room. “...How’s the uh—the _leg doin’_ , too? Was pretty _bad,_ y’know.” 

Swiping his wrist under his bloody nose, he shrugged, not really sure what to do with himself. 

“...A’ight.” I muttered. “And you’re _sure?_ If you’re too banged up, you’re only gonna’ slow this whole thing down. Ya’ need the urgent care?” He shook his head with some reinforced conviction, and I had to take his word for it, gesturing to the ride behind him. “...’Kay. Let’s get this ball rollin’, then. We got some shit ta’ do; ya’ ain’t off the hook, yet.” 

I was stunned I hadn’t truly processed what he stood in front of until that moment. It was a 1969 _Bootlegger_ —a classic, _and a good one._ The original orange paint had worn down after many summers spent sleeping in a backyard somewhere, flaked, dented, and oxidized. From the outside, it looked like any old bygone muscle car, the doors full of dings, and the ashy rear tires dry-rotted and painfully bald. But, the rollbar hiding behind the scuffed glass suggested a _glorious past._

 _“Damn—_ nice car.” I blurted, absentmindedly; I didn’t even realize I’d said it until the new guy raised his head, astonished. _Rightfully_. He was so damn _quiet_ I could forget he was even standing there. “Uh,” I abruptly clarified— _I was really putting him through the mental gymnastics, today._ “...I take it ol’ Rusty _runs,_ right?” 

I challenged his pride, his straightened back and stout, unexpected smirk translating to _‘duh’_ as he swung open his unlocked door, inviting me to ride shotgun. 

I recalled something or other about _getting into cars with strangers_ as I shuffled around the back end to the passenger side. Opening the heavy, creaky door, I stepped over the rollbar padded in _pool-noodle foam and duct tape,_ sinking into the comfortable, aged leather seat _._ It was warm, but not enough to grill my ass alive, the smell of rubber, metal, and faint gasoline deeply nostalgic. The AC obviously didn’t work, and the AM 8-track radio was disconnected in favor of a CD player jury-rigged through the glovebox. Other than that, the kid kept it all factory. 

“...Ya’ carryin’?” I asked over a door slam. “Ya’ got a gun? Anything?” He shook his head. “...OK, there’s a uh, a gas station down the street, next to the Freckle Bitch’s. Unless ya’ wanna’ swing by your place and take care of all that.” I was referring to a particularly nasty knick on his eyebrow, bleeding like hell—courtesy of somebody’s ring, probably. _It was a marvel his half-a-dozen piercings hadn’t shredded his face._ “Just make it quick.” 

He put the keys in the ignition, nonchalantly pointing a thumb over his shoulder in reply. 

I wasn’t sure what he meant, and I couldn’t reasonably see without twisting my entire body around. 

The back seat was covered in a colorful, zigzag blanket, a pillow, and a duffle bag, with some cans and plastic bottles on the floorboard. A helmet and a pair of sandals made from repurposed _bike tires_ were stuffed up against the center console. 

“...Oh.” was all I could come up with as I turned back around, not wanting to make it any more of a spectacle. With my ears burning, I spied his pensive expression in the mirror. “You’re, uh… sleepin’ in your _car,_ man?” 

_A winter up here could kill someone in an hour, tops. I’d pulled enough half-thawed bodies out of the snow to know._

Blinking, he shrugged— _like it didn’t bother him,_ but I’m not stupid. “...Well, those days are over.” I talked over his silence, sparing him the elaboration—it really didn’t matter. “You’re runnin’ with the Saints, now. Gimme’ a couple days; I’ll hook ya’ up.” 

Looking me in the eye suddenly, he searched for some clue that I was full of shit. 

“... _I mean it.”_ I insisted. “I’ll get ya’ a place ta’ crash.” 

_Maybe part of me was reaching out to prove something. Not to him, but to myself—that I was more than just some crooked cop that could pull the trigger. Or, maybe it was something about him. He was sitting there because of me, but I didn’t want to think about it._

_One thing was for sure, that week: murder felt different sober._

“Just—” I huffed, already making an ass out of myself, facing the road again. “Go wherever, uh—where ya’ need to. Sink, and uh…what’s that shit, _iodine.”_ What? “ _Whatever.”_

He was adapting to my rapid decisions, adjusting the incline of his seat and turning the key. That perfect hemi engine fired with a clean, thunderous roar, the cab jostling lightly as he pumped the gas and let it run. I craved a cigarette, but I wasn’t so _uncouth_ that I’d smoke in the dude’s car. Rolling down the window as he reversed, I propped an elbow on the frame and spaced out instead, wondering if I could get my nicotine hit from the fucking smog. I didn’t think anything of the cluster of trash cans approaching, until they grew closer—

“Wh— _hey, hey, hey!”_

He slammed the brakes, jerking me forward, punting those aluminum trash cans a good couple feet, scattering trash and a rolling lid across the grassy median. Grimacing, but thinking nothing of it, he shifted as I quickly planted myself back in the seat. “What the _fuck,_ man!” 

He pressed the gas, swerving out of the lot, catching the curb on the right side. The car jumped and I threw out my arm, gripping the rollbar, scrambling for the dated seat belt. “Where the fuck’d you learn _ta’ drive?”_ I shouted, voice cracking as I threw the buckle over my waist. “Slow the _fuck down,_ this’s a residential street— _stop!”_

His _lead boot_ slammed as a passerby screamed, narrowly dodging the hood. He stumbled with his groceries, kicking the front bumper and bellowing over the idling— _“Tratas de matarme, ¿cabrón?_ ¡Te partiré el culo!”

“Ay, _¡chúpamela,_ idiota!” The new guy mocked suddenly, leaning out of the window to lazily flip him off, startling _me_ way more than _the fucking guy he almost mowed down._ “Mira por dónde vas _, ¡pinche tarado!”_

They argued, and I locked my slacked jaw, sinking down in my seat. His voice was raspy, whistling and mellow, sitting at a slightly higher pitch than what I'd have guessed. I recognized the accent when I heard it, thanks to my proximity to the Lopez family and their roots in Tijuana. His unhurried twang alone insinuated he hailed from the _deep country El Norte._

The pedestrian was still yelling rapid-fire, but I didn’t understand a word—pointing at _me_ now from the headlight. 

“Hey, our bad, man! _¡Lo siento!”_ I attempted to pacify, but he took it badly— _of course he did_ — hollering at me and threatening to throw his bags, directing his entourage at my side. “Will ya’ fucking _go,_ already?” I snapped at the new guy, ushering him on. “Let’s go! _Vamoose!”_

Grunting, he spun the wheel and accelerated, taking off while I pressed my back into the cushion and braced my feet against the baseboard, gripping the rollbar to keep my ass in the seat. _This puppy had some serious torque._

“So, ya’ _do talk!”_ I declared, shooting a wry, sarcastic smile his way. “I just can’t understand a _fuckin’ word of it.”_

Puffing, he shook his head, his brow suppressing what I could only describe as _boredom._ That veneer of shy, Mexican manners didn’t fool me. I knew I had a hardcore adrenaline-junkie on my hands. 

_Fuck it, I’m smoking._ I pinched a cig in my lips directly from the pack, still hanging on. “Ya’ got a _license?”_ I yapped over the rumble, the new guy _chuckling,_ so light it was barely audible. I squinched an eye, frowning. “No license? They let ya’ fuckin’ _race_ without a license? Ya’ even got a pink slip for this thing?” He smiled at my _astuteness,_ but didn’t reply. “This ain’t the fuckin’ _dragstrip,_ man. Someone’s gonna’ get hurt— _probably me.”_

Saying even _more_ of nothing— _of course,_ we neared the gas station, the car bouncing up into the lot, somehow angling into a parking space relatively straight. _Between the lines, anyway._ Releasing a breath I’d held for ten minutes, I irritably flicked my dying lighter, keeping an eye on the new guy as he scooped up change from the unused ashtray. 

“...I’ll be here.” I mumbled, hissing smoke out the window as his door slammed. “Hey, hey, _wait_ —c’mere!” I forgot, waving him back over. He resumed his unobtrusive demeanor and that _kicked-dog look_ as he approached my side. “...They, uh—they sell _phones, and shit,_ with the prepaid minute card, things.” I rambled as I searched my pocket, flattening out two rumpled $20’s and a $10. “Grab one. You’re gonna’ need it.” 

He hesitated, but took the money after I reasserted the gesture, tucking it into his shirt pocket. I watched him limp to the front door, grabbing the handle and pulling on it fruitlessly. Confused, he cupped his hands to the overcrowded glass to presumably check if they were still open. I glanced at my watch: _1:30, they should be._

It was only after another customer left did he realize he was pulling on a _push-door,_ and promptly disappeared inside. Closing my burning eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose, a groan welling at the back of my throat. 

_I really couldn’t wait to give this guy a gun._

My cig was reduced to a nub by the time he returned, plastic bag in hand. When he climbed back in, a strip of white bandage butterflied his eyebrow closed, and all of the blood had been rinsed from his frayed T-shirt collar. His hair dangled loosely now just at his shoulders, freed and crimped from the braid, conjuring up truck-stop memories of taking a bath in a sink. Reaching into the bag, he passed me a can of pop with my change, smirking modestly. 

I wasn’t about to turn down a homeless guy’s _peace offering,_ especially not _root beer._

“...Thanks, man.” I said, juggling the wad of $1’s and cracking the tab. “...Not sure how I’ll keep from _wearin’ it_ , though, way you drive.” 

He smiled again, gathering his hair in the bandanna and re-tying it behind his head. After a quick double-check of his injuries in the mirror, he turned the key and fired up the _Bootlegger._

“So...you, uh—ya’ got a _name?”_ I asked, thankful he was looking over his shoulder to reverse this time. Nursing my pop, I swallowed while his long pause loomed. “...That a _‘no’?_ I gotta' call ya' _somethin'._ Ya’ from around here? _"_

Shrugging, he avoided my gaze and shifted into drive again, and I eventually noticed his nervous grip on the wheel. 

“Uh…I get it.” I reassured, not sure what to say to that. “Don’t sweat it, New Guy. You, uh, know _my name.”_ I drummed my fingers on the steel inelegantly. “... _Troy,_ in case ya’ didn’t know—er, or didn’t remember. And, I’m not sayin’ that so ya’ have to reciprocate, or nothin’, just figured ya’ wanna' know. Or, well, maybe not; it ain’t like ya' talk. Not like there’s…there’s nothin’ wrong with that. I’m just sayin’, uh, this ain’t the place ta’ be _shy,_ a’ight? Bein’ shy—people walk all over ya’, take advantage. Ya’ gotta be your own _biggest fan,_ know what I’m sayin’? _”_ I changed the subject when I saw his reserved grin return. “Ah— _fuck it._ Head to _Friendly Fire._ Ya’ know where that’s at? Corner of Harrowgate and Mission Beach, just down from the Church. Can’t miss it.” 

I occupied my mouth with my drink, _hoping maybe it’d stop the slew of bullshit falling out of it._

Judging by how long it took him to get us back to the church, it was apparent he wasn’t from that side of town. He parked on the curb at the gunshop’s storefront, and I untangled myself from the seatbelt. Exiting the car with a courteous slam of the door, I spoke over the screech of the tram above. 

“I’ll be right back. If I need any pissed-off outbursts in Spanish, I’ll let ya’ know. Try ta’ keep it under wraps ‘til I get back, though, huh?” 

He nodded, amused, and I headed in, welcoming the refuge of air conditioning. 

A second bell jingled as the door clambered behind me, fluorescent lights buzzing over a low radio. The place was basically a pawn shop, but throw some chain-store polish on the dingy carpet and checkerboard linoleum, and the country’s biggest flex of the 2nd Amendment was ready for business. Friendly Fire depended on every state and federal loophole imaginable, blending seamlessly into the island’s strip malls and corner stores until the casual acquisition of firearms was as much a fixed presence as the curbside piles of furniture. It still shocked the piss out of me, but hey— _when in Rome._

A cute, sunny blond weaved out of the back room, stationing herself behind the counter, wearing her usual oddly chipper disposition. I smiled back— _I picked up some ammo there a few weeks ago, and I was counting on her to remember me._ I didn’t have time to chase down a hawker or find a garage sale, and going to the On the Fence was a bad idea; the last thing I needed was to bring the new recruit to my informant’s job.

The price tags on the menagerie of knives behind the glass of the fingerprinted display case didn’t fill me with confidence, and I prepared for the month of ramen noodles ahead of me. My paycheck was beyond generous; I never dreamed I’d be bringing home 80k a year. But, thanks to my old man’s tendency of signing a twelve-year-old up for credit cards, defaulted student loans that did me no favors, plus all the hospital debt prior to getting my official position, the IRS would be garnishing my wages until I died. New York had some protections, but it wasn’t fixing my credit score and it didn’t pay the rent, so doing jobs for the Saints paid better than my fucking career in the long run. Funny how that worked. 

After some airy small-talk, she brought me a semi-automatic VICE9 pistol—a reliable, sturdy Army sidearm, and it was mine—or rather the new guy’s—for $250. My first instinct was to go ask him how much he had on him, but I tossed that idea given the obvious. I should’ve known Julius would leave me to look after him; maybe it was a way to dissuade any more _heroic ventures_ in the future. _That idea pissed me off,_ because in the end it just fell on the new guy, and it wasn’t his fault he had sudden _work expenses._

I grabbed a couple boxes of ammunition and some snap caps so he didn’t accidentally blow my head off, all the while keeping a flirty, hokey conversation going in the hopes she would forgo that RI-060 form. Something told me the new guy didn’t have a social, let alone a purchasing license, and the last thing I needed was a gun registered in my name, in another state— _which I would already have to answer for_ —turning up in that kid’s possession, or at a crime scene. 

_God, knock on wood._

After what felt like _yet another 90-minute conversation about Midwestern weather patterns,_ everything managed to find their way onto the counter and subsequently into a plastic bag with a _smiley-face on it,_ borrowed from the takeout joint next door. I almost got away without having to produce any I.D., but since I laid it on a little thick, now she was interested in knowing where I came from. I tried to keep a smile going through the revelation that I had a Florida driver’s license—a very fake license, at that—so that began _another_ conversation about the beaches and perpetual sunshine, and I lied through my teeth that my knish-lovin’-ass was absolutely, unquestionably from fucking _Miami._

_Oh, the beaches are to die for— especially when you’re driving a semi full of Colombian nose candy._

I paid with Julius’ charity and some of my own, scrawling my initials on the receipt with a chewed ballpoint. I really couldn’t get outside quick enough, waving for the new guy to pop the trunk. _Yup, there’s the racing slicks, and all that burnt rubber smell, gleaming in the sun._ After stashing one of the bags and the target in there, I returned to the passenger door and climbed in. 

“...Sorry about that, man.” I apologized as I raked my hair out of my face. He was sweating from the wait, but it didn’t seem to get to him much. “I was tryin’ ta’ get outta’ _registerin’_ this fuckin’ thing. I’da picked one up off of somebody, but, we don’t got time for that.” I motioned for his attention after slamming the door, unfolding the gun from the tack cloth. “Technically, ya’ ain’t allowed ta’ have a loaded gun in the vehicle at any time. Or on ya’, really. You’re gonna’ go home and file this down, understand?” The new guy studied my hand, before raising his eyes to mine. “Don’t get me wrong, open carry’s legal here, but only if it’s in your name. Best ya’ keep it outta’ sight, OK? Not worth takin’ chances. Ya’ get busted with this thing, and you’re gettin’ dragged in, no questions asked. It’s a misdemeanor, but they’ll try to get ya’ for other shit and up the charges. How they _make their money._ You’re, uh…” 

My voice trailed off. _I’d seen a hundred just like him, sitting there, handcuffed in booking with nobody to miss them._ “...What I’m gettin’ at, here, is to stay away from the fuckin’ cops. Ya’ get pulled over? Well— _don’t.”_ I started wiping away the smudges on the barrel with the hem of my shirt. “...And if ya’ _do,_ ya’ call me or Julius, immediately. Ya’ keep that shit between us, got it?” 

_Keep it together._

The new guy nodded, and I tucked the gun into my belt. “...Which reminds me. _Phone.”_

I reached into the back seat for the gas station bag, tearing open the packaging. I flipped open my own phone, clicking through the contacts, taking me way too long to copy the numbers correctly, _like always._ After dialing and activating the minutes, I held it out for him. 

“Everybody you’ll be needin’ to talk to’s in there, includin’ me. But, this’s _only_ for Saints’ shit, got it? The whole point of these is ta’ keep it cheap and simple. If ya’ need somethin’ ta’ call grandma on, get another one.”

Understanding, he nodded faintly and pocketed it. “Now, don’t go _buggin’ us_. Keep it short and sweet, and don’t talk details. _For some reason_ ya’ don’t strike me as a chatterbox, so those minutes will probably roll over.” 

He huffed at my jab, and I stared contemplatively down at my lap for a moment, hands out in a pause, before scratching my beard. “...So, we got a little bit of a problem, here. The range costs money, and I got maybe twenty-somethin’ bucks left. That don’t leave us a lotta’ options.” 

The new guy somewhat frowned as he reached for the bag. 

“Nuh-uh,” I recoiled, blocking him. _“Hell no,_ man, not until ya’ _practice,_ a'ight? You’re not shootin’ yourself, or _me._ This ain’t a fuckin’ toy.” He didn’t say anything— _what a surprise—_ his gaze falling to the space of seat between us. “We can’t go shootin’ within city limits,” I continued. “Obviously, _people do it,_ that’s why we’re here. But, I don’t want any good Samaritans callin’ the cops when I’m tryin’ ta’ teach ya’ what’s what. We’ll need to get outta’ town.” 

He practically _180’d at the idea,_ flashing an excited grin that caught me off-guard.

 _“...What?”_ I asked, shifting uncertainly in my seat. “Whassat’ _look?”_

He lifted his foot, folding his leg over his knee and pointing at the dried mud caked in his workboot’s tread. 

“...Oh,” I gathered, as he lowered his foot to the pedals again. “Well, I can’t say I’m as familiar with Stilwater’s _boonies_ as I should be. If ya’ know someplace, what’s the holdup?”

Sitting back in his seat, the new guy watched the train tracks, as if he were considering. Eventually, he turned the key, and I listened to the engine turn over, idling a moment, before he shifted and started driving. He kept us parallel to the tracks, and I resituated our haul in the bag, leaving it all between my feet. When I noticed we were approaching the highway, I glanced at him. “...Where we goin’? It’s an island; how much woods can there be?” 

Remaining _annoyingly mute,_ his smile was almost secretive. I scoffed to myself as his posture slackened and his grip on the wheel relaxed, taking that as a sign to _get comfortable._ Finding my crinkled pack of cigarettes, I lit another and reclined, resting my elbow in the open window frame as he turned into the on-ramp. 

_No matter how much I liked to think I knew what I was getting myself into, or what I was good for—when it came to him, I truly had no fucking idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without needing to specify, as I'm sure everyone is aware of by now, Nacho's "Bootlegger" is a 1969 Dodge Charger R/T. :') The VICE9 pistol is a Beretta M9.


	4. Young Gun

The Lake sprawled beneath the highway, sparkling in the hot sun while billboards cluttered the cloudless skyline, boasting local businesses with names _I had to see to believe,_ sporadic high rises in various states of disrepair zipping by the guard rails. A fifteen-minute drive took us clear across town, the renovations and roadwork tapering off as we descended the bowed off-ramp just shy of the _dollar-store Mackinac._

The new guy cut through a residential neighborhood, front porches congested in _grown-ups_ seeking refuge from the heat via beer and shade, while the kids rode bikes and shot hoops. Eventually, we wound up in the outskirts of the district and turned a corner into nowhere, the empty fields stretching beyond Encanto's last graffitied gas station. Flicking my cigarette butt out the window, I repositioned anticipatingly in my seat. 

“...Where the hell are we?” I asked, expecting a cow to roam by. The new guy’s pointer finger suddenly dropped into view, guiding my attention to the rocky cliffs skirted by trees and a trailer park. “...Yeah, OK. _What about it?”_

Scoffing, he pointed again, ardently. I traced his line of sight to a metal gate gobbled by the weeds, blocking off a series of overgrown trails. With a rev of the engine, he accelerated beyond the stop sign onto the gravel path, throwing me around the cab some more for good measure. We followed it for about 1/8 of a mile, slowing to a bumpy halt in front of the gate. Pulling the E-brake, he opened the door and crunched through the tall grass and goldenrod. 

I leaned out of the window, slapping at the gnats while he unhooked the chain and walked the steel tube gate open, discovering a trail snaking through dynamited rock behind it. It didn’t appear to be private property, but it was definitely _remote._

“...Ya’ ain’t plannin’ on _burying me up there,_ are ya’?” I asked when he returned. He found that funny, masking a smirk and slamming the door. “Oh, goodie.” I quipped, rocking my knee. “Yeah. That's _great_ , man. _Really._ ” 

We headed for the inclined trails, weaving around the mountainside, passing piles of scrap and trash littering the half-sunken cliffs. Climbing higher, Stilwater’s shadow faded, swapped out for another long band of road with bleachers on either side, shrouded in dense pine and rippling fields. I recognized the repurposed Old Highway as we drove by, cut off sharply by the water’s jaws, the encroaching Lake lapping at the bank and swelling a little higher every year. What remained made for an excellent racetrack, and even from that distance I could identify the trailers and campers. 

“...So, that’s where you’re luggin’ this thing.” I snarked, earning a placid grin. We bounced along, chugging around a bend, the only thing protecting us from a long drop some flimsy fencing long seen better days. Branches and unkempt bushes whacked the windshield until they parted, revealing a peaceful, grassy clearing. 

I slouched in my seat, practically _basting_ in the heat as the engine quieted. The buzz of dragonflies and bees filled my ears, water trickling somewhere nearby, subtle exhaust fumes wafting into the cab. Save for a portable toilet and a trash bin chained to the _tetanus factory of a picnic table,_ these woods were about as secluded as it got. 

The new guy got out of the car, prompting me to do the same, the refreshing breeze from the altitude an immediate relief. Shielding my eyes from the patchy sunlight, the wooden sign propped at the mountain’s slope read in streaky, stenciled paint: 

_“MOUNT CLAFLIN STATE PARK.”_

“Huh.” I puffed to myself, pinching my shirt and fanning it away from my chest. _I hadn’t seen trees like that since PADI training on Erie._ “...Surprised a place like this even exists in Stilwater. Even _more surprised_ it ain’t covered in garbage and crackheads.” I turned back to him, curious. “How’d ya’ know about it? Ya’ used to live around here, or somethin’?” 

He shrugged, rubbing his sore hand. 

_“Yeah…”_ I lagged, not sure what I expected. “I really oughta’ quit askin’ questions that ain’t a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.” 

My nosiness drew me to the cliffside, wildflowers in full bloom, caterpillar nests speckling the trees. Testing my footing, I nervously stomped a few times near an unfenced section, bending slightly. The winding trails we’d just climbed ribboned beneath, and further yet, a pond emptying into the river glimmered from a field, so clear I could see the bottom. 

“...Whassat that down there?” I called, digging for my cigarettes and tapping the pack against my palm. There looked to be a shed or something nearby, _but I backed up before I got sick._ “Somebody’s yard?”

The new guy joined me and casually leaned over to look— _clearly unaffected by heights_ , before he imitated a spindle, flicking his wrist with a mimicked _plop_. 

_“...Fishing,_ ah.” I snorted. “Sweet. You hicks know how ta’ have fun, at least.” 

He waved me off huffily and shuffled back to the car, making me smirk as I shielded my lighter from the wind. I allowed myself a final glance at the Stilwater _less advertised,_ taking a calming drag before getting back to business. Reaching through the Bootlegger’s open window, I swiped the bag from the floorboard while he cleared out the cans from his back seat, tucking them into his arm. 

“...Oh, wanna’ practice on those first?” I guessed, and he lifted his chin in confirmation. “Ah, yeah, hey—that’s a good idea. Ideally, ya’ should be practicin’ on somethin’, uh… _”_ I winced, breathing smoke. “... _Squishy,_ y’know? Get ya’ used to, uh… _well,_ ya’ get it.” 

With my hands on my hips, I surveyed the clearing, spotting a rocky bank halfway exposed to direct sunlight, littered in dumped tires. “That’s a good place, over there.” I relayed as I walked, rummaging through the bag. The new guy made quick work of setting up the cans in a neat row against the slope, crouching down in broken bottle glass and pebbles. “A'ight,” I beckoned, pulling the pistol from my waistband, cool in my hand. “C’mere a sec.’”

Coming to stand beside me, I lifted the gun into view, the scratched steel shining as I held it away from us. “...This’s your piece; it’s a VICE9. Takes 9mm bullets, ‘kay?” I rattled the box of ammo before letting it drop to the grass. “Ya’ load ‘em into a magazine. That’s this thing right here.” 

Clicking the release, the empty mag slid out into my hand, and I held it up for him to see, before palming it back. “Keep a few of ‘em on ya’. You can buy more of these, but, _discreetly,_ like I said. This gun holds fifteen. Cartrige feeds into the chamber, right here.” I locked open the slide, showing him the empty cylinder. “Since ya’ never shot a gun, lemme’ make this abundantly clear.” Raising my left arm, elbow bent, I demonstrated with a steady hand. “...Only point at what ya’ intend to shoot. You _only shoot to kill,_ understand me? And, uh, don’t shoot _drunk,_ a'ight? No huntin’ trips with your drunk uncle. Trust me, it’s a bad idea.” 

That got him going, clearly unprepared for such professional advice. “This’s important stuff here, man, pay attention. Did my uncle shoot me in the ass? Yes. I’m haunted. The lesson here is to not shoot your friends in the ass. Don’t point it at nothin’ ya’ don’t intend to make dead. Now—hey, _cut that shit out,_ a’ight, no goofin’ off, this is serious _stuff.”_ He was doing his best to stay stiff and austere up until that point, so naturally I had to fuck with him. “Don’t shoot your friends in the ass. Rule _número uno,_ huh? Rule two— _what’s ‘two’,”_ I held up two fingers as I pondered, snapping them. “Uh…?” 

“... _Dos.”_ The new guy mumbled. 

“ _Dos, yes,_ thank you. Rule _número dos,”_ I carried on, and he dipped his head to cover his nostrils flaring. “...Is to practice, first. That’s where these come in.” 

I picked up the other box, flipping open the cardboard flap and showing him. “These are _snap caps._ They _look_ like live ammo, but this part here?” I nudged one with my hooked thumb. “There’s nothin’ in here; it’s a dud. Before we load anything live into this thing, I want ya’ ta’ get used to the feel of it. The trigger don’t go ‘bang’ immediately, OK? There’s some push to it. When that happens, your hand tends to wanna’—” I mimicked the recoil, jerking my wrist up, gold bracelet jingling. “...Go like ‘at. It fucks your aim. Plan for it, and learn your weapon.” 

He nodded as I plucked a few more cartridges from the box, reserving them in my free hand. “...Now, the best way to practice that is somethin’ called ‘dry firing.’” I chambered one, cocking the slide. “The problem with doin’ it _dry_ though, is—” I sputtered— _Bradshaw’s famous lexicon strikes again._ “...Er, that’s never _fun_ for anyone, right? _No bueno?”_

He squeezed his eyes shut as another smile threatened. “Yeah? Well, same logic applies to guns, here, OK?” He was offsetting the difficulty in concealing his raspy snickering by scratching his nose, while I maintained my poker face with expert tenacity. “That’s what these are for. It keeps wear to a minimum. Now, here; you’re gonna’ try.” I passed it to him by the barrel, offering the handle. “It don’t bite.” 

Collecting himself, he hesitantly took it in his right hand, hoisting it— _and tilting it sideways._

_Ugh._

“No, no, no— _time out.”_ I interrupted, reaching immediately for his hand, orienting it correctly upright. “None of that _movie shit;_ ya’ wanna’ _look tough_ ya’ do that when ya’ ain’t about ta’ get _shot._ See this thingy?” I tapped a ghostly finger on the ironsights. “This’s how you _aim._ Level that to your eye.” I raised his wrist, ducking down behind his shoulder to match his height, approximating his sight picture. “...OK _shorty,_ that’s good—around there. Now, ya’ can’t use that spiffy little piece of modern ingenuity holdin’ it _fuckin’ sideways,_ can ya’?” He glanced at me, some amount of exasperation settling on his brow. _“Eyeballs,_ man, use ‘em peepers. When ya’ line this _here_ up with _this,”_ I tapped the single protruding post at the end of the barrel, and then the U-notch. “...and it fits together? We call that ‘building a castle’, ‘kay? It means you’re good to fire.” 

I watched as he focused, tweaking his position as his left eye fluttered closed. 

“Good. Another thing—when ya’ shoot, keep _both eyes_ open. You’re gonna’ be tempted to squint.” I motioned, squeezing one of my eyes shut. “But, _trust me,_ ya’ wanna’ keep _both eyes_ on your target, especially if they’re shootin’ at’cha. Since you’re a righty, I’m assuming ya’ got lucky and your right eye’s the dominant one, correct?” The new guy paused, closing one, and then the other, before nodding slowly. “Good. See, I got the shit-end of the stick with that. _Ocular cross-dominance,_ it’s annoying. Movin’ on.” 

I switched the safety off as he watched. “G’head and try it. Focus on the trigger and how it feels. Deep breath, exhale, and squeeze. Steady pressure.” With some newfound certainty, he squeezed, and the gun clicked quietly. I spread my arms, his eyebrows raising at the simplicity. “See? It’s easy. Go for it a few more times.” 

He did so, calming down and stabilizing his hand, a confident smile breaking as he turned back to me. 

“Good. On to the real shit.” Repossessing the gun, I held it out so that my hands were visible, demonstrating slowly. “Watch closely. _Never_ assume a gun’s unloaded until you check. Press this here,” I explained, and obliging, the magazine slid out into his hand in fluid motion. “Good. Now, use your fingers to open the slide. When you do that, I’m holdin’ this down with my thumb, see?” I tilted it, tapping the slide release with my thumb before pressing it. “G’head. OK, now, let’s get that out.” Tipping it over, the snap cap fell into my palm. “I’m gonna’ push this— _move your fingers,”_ He curled them back, and I flipped the release, the slide snapping sharply back into place. “...And now decock it.” One more swipe, and the hammer flipped back up. “There ya’ go. Got all that?” 

He met my eyes, nodding hesitantly. 

_That would have to do,_ and crouching down beside the bag, I opened the second box of cartridges. Holding out my closed hand, I shook it to get his attention, dropping the extra snap caps into his palm. “Hang on to these; you can practice indoors with ‘em.” 

Stuffing them into the pocket of his oversized, wrinkled cargo pants, he took some of the weight off his bad leg while I finished prepping. Standing, and with reflexive maneuvering, I cocked the VICE9 and tabbed the safety on. 

“Just a sec— _Hey!”_ I called, cupping a hand around my mouth for heightened volume. “Anybody out there?” 

My voice clanged around in the trees and before dissipating, leaving us only with the sounds of birds and bugs. “...A'ight, we're good. Come stand over here.” 

Gesturing with a roll of my shoulder, the new guy stepped closer and eyeballed me cautiously. Holding the gun out, I moved behind him while his hand encircled the handle. “First off, your stance. Chances are, ya’ ain’t gonna’ have time to think about your footwork. But, it’s good ta’ know.” I scooted his boots apart with my shoe. “Feet shoulder-width apart, and— _stand up straight._ You’re short enough as it is, slouchin’ ain’t _helpin’ nothin’.”_ Through a mild glare, he listened, straightening his back and squaring his dense shoulders. “There, tough guy—now you’re a force to be reckoned with.” 

I lifted his elbow a bit, before taking his wrist. “Lean forward a little—good. Keep your elbows loose.” I jerked them down, before he caught on and resisted the movement. “You don’t wanna’ be locked out, see? One hand on the grip, the other supportin’ it. Like this.” I repositioned his stiff hands. “Thumb right above the takedown pin, but keep it off the slide—good. There shouldn’t be any space between it and your thumb webbing, here. This’ll make the kick much easier to control.” 

Backing up slightly, with my hands still hovering over his, I double-checked his form before my eyes dropped tentatively. “...You’re _shakin’._ Calm down.” 

He locked his jaw, breath held—my attentiveness now tacking _embarrassment_ onto his nervousness.

“...Look, uh—it’s normal to be a little spooked.” I reassured, doing my best to sound encouraging. “I ain’t gonna’ run outta’ here and shout from the rooftops that _the new guy’s a pussy._ Shootin’ people shouldn’t come naturally, a'ight? I’d be more worried if ya’ were all _gung-ho_ about it.” 

He glanced at me, inhaling with a shuddering sound, but nodded. I mirrored him as his grip relaxed. “OK? I’m right here; ya’ got this. Switch off the safety.” 

Focused, he peered down the sights, releasing it with his thumb. “Good…” I coached. “Now, it’s gonna’ be _loud,_ a'ight? Not _too_ loud, but, it ain’t a fuckin’ lullaby. Ya’ should have ear protection, but…better ta’ get _used to it._ Just breathe, and chill. Ya’ ready?” He exhaled, nodding again as I counted back. “3...2...1, _fire.”_

A sudden _pop_ followed, sending a can flipping and cascading off the cliff side with a satisfying _ping!_ , a cloud of dust kicking up in its stead. The new guy jumped, his hands jolting suddenly, no doubt feeling _that sting._ I listened as the gunshot crackled over the rocks, carried on the wind. 

Grinning, I took another drag as I squinted, seeing the metal sparkle down through the rocks. 

_Not bad._

“Congrats, man. Killer of _cans._ Trash and pop alike.”I slapped his back a couple times to keep him from getting too wrapped up in the nerves. “See? That wasn’t so bad, huh? _Kinda’ fun,_ right? Things goin’ _boom?_ ” 

Exhilaration hovered in his face, before his lips closed into a more subdued smirk. “So, OK—check this out.” I reached, yanking the slide forward in one sharp movement and letting it snap back. “This’s _single action._ Your last shot was called ‘double action.’” I patted the hammer, gently. “Instead of before, where it moved down incrementally, it’s gonna’ clamp down _quick._ The trigger’s gonna’ feel softer, too.” 

Readjusting, he lifted the gun level to his eyes. “Good, good…” I assured, quietly. “A'ight—3...2...1, _go.”_

Squeezing, he fired, hitting another can dead-center with the gunshot looming. His shoulders relaxed, slightly, lips forming a line as the smoke ribboned. I gave him a deserved thumbs-up, backing away and plopping down near our supplies. With my arms propped on my knees, I took my _deserved break._ “G’head and practice some more.” I said, loosely hooking my fingers. “I’m watchin’.” 

I enjoyed my smoke with ringing ears while I witnessed each can pitched, one by one, to the slope.The dude was a goddamn _crack shot,_ and when he _did_ miss, he took it personally. The birds complained overhead, _having a shittier afternoon than me,_ filling the woods with their screeching. 

When the gun emptied, he lowered his hands, determination replacing his earlier anxiety. 

“Good job, man.” I clapped as he turned, waving him over in shallow strokes. “Hey— _clear your gun.”_

I watched his hands as he stepped up to me, ejecting the magazine, opening the slide and checking the chamber, decocking it and presenting it with the handle out. 

Satisfied, _and maybe a little proud,_ I leaned up and took both from him. “...You’re sharp; I’ll give ya’ that.” He looked away modestly, casting his eyes to his shoes. “Now you’re gonna’ load it.” I dragged the ammo box in front of him as he lowered to sit cross-legged in the grass. “This takes a minute, but you’ll get quick at it.” I held up the magazine, “This little bit here—it’s metal here, can be plastic sometimes—it’s called the _follower.”_ Pressing on it, it bounced. “Inside there’s a spring feedin’ the cartridges up, ya’ see?” 

Nodding, he watched as I tapped a finger along the edge. “You’re gonna’ wanna’ find the flat side. That’s how ya’ know it’s the _back,_ OK? They’re gonna’ point _this way.”_ Demonstrating, pushing the cartridge in and sliding it down, I held it out to him. “It’s nothin’.” 

Taking it, he clumsily worked them in, before catching on and pinning down the previous with his thumb to leverage the next. “Ah, see—there ya’ go. Gettin’ the hang of this.” I draped my arms comfortably around my shins again, watching him work. “...They have speed-loaders if you’re in a hurry. It can get time consuming. Plus, it gives ya’ blisters, and shit.” 

He finished, but held up his hand to show me a heavily calloused, stained, and hardened palm. I reeled; _whatever work he’d been doing really beat the shit out of him._ “...Well, unless ya’ got, uh— _yeah._ You’re probably _good.”_

Reclining in the grass, I patted out my cigarette on the bottom of my hightop, _sighing from my bones._ “Ya’ got another box left. If ya’ wanna’ practice some more, ya’ can.” 

He appeared to ruminate, but turned to me afterward, motioning as he got to his feet. 

_“...What?”_ I asked, furrowing my brows. The grass was clammy and felt good on my back, and paired with the breeze and shade, I was finally cooling down. “I’m burnin’ alive out here, no way I’m gettin’ up. _Go play.”_

About to close my eyes, he waved at me again energetically, forcing me to tilt my head irritably out of sheer principle. “...Look, just _fuckin’ talk,_ man. I know you _can._ What _is it?”_

Huffing, he balled his fists, lips parting again. _“Si quieres,_ puedes practicar conmigo—”  
 _  
__“Huh?”_

_A sigh._

I squinted at him in the diffuse sunlight. “...Do you speak English?” 

Shuffling, he seesawed his hand. _So-so._ “...But, ya’ understand _me?_ Well, that don’t make much fuckin’ sense, man. You’re gonna’ have ta’ work with me, here, so every day ain’t _charades.”_ Folding an arm behind my head, I closed my eyes and got comfortable. “English or _ASL,”_ I signed as I spoke. “That’s all I got.” 

I assumed he gave up, hearing his boots in the grass. But, his footsteps soon halted. 

“...Shoot with me.” He compelled himself to say, finally, _his words as hushed as his accent was strong._ There was a slight drawl on his English— _Texan, or something._ “If you like.” 

More than a little stunned, I opened my eyes. “... _What?”_

_“¿No hablas inglés?”_

“ _Hey_ —OK, no, _smartass,_ I caught that.” Pointing at him accusingly, I got up, brushing off my ass. “Ya’ wanna’ _target practice?_ Like, against _me?”_

 _True to silent form,_ he nodded once.

I wasn’t looking to establish some pattern of camaraderie with the guy; in a week’s time, he’d be taking potshots with the other jackasses down at the church, and I’d have one more personnel file in my stack.

“Ah…” I clicked my tongue. “Yeah, I don’t…” 

“‘Fraid you’ll _lose?”_

Baffled by his disarmingly _matter-of-fact tone,_ I set my head back combatively, looking down my nose at him. He flashed a cheeky grin, revealing a gap in his front teeth. 

_First couple sentences he’s said to me, and it’s to talk smack?_

_I could respect that._

“... _A’ight_ man, a’ight—it’s gonna’ be like _that,_ huh? _You’re on.”_ Unholstering my revolver with a sarcastic flourish, I stalked through the grass, catching the little shit still smirking contentedly out of the corner of my eye. _I had to keep up appearances, right?_ “...And once you’re really rollin’ in the dough runnin’ Father Little’s cassock to the cleaners, ya’ can foot the cost of my ammo. This shit’s _match.”_

I heard him open the trunk, and leaving it open, he passed me with the target over to the slope, climbing the rocks for a boost. Outstretching his arms, and using a rock to secure the corners, he draped it across the gap and jumped down again. 

After a calculating glance at each other, we started walking. 

We looked like two idiots dicking around in the sticks— _one of us a bit more out of place than the other_ —but _felt like_ two idiots out of an Old West movie. Standing a good fifty yards away, with the sunlit target wafting in the light breeze, I checked my gun before spinning it closed again. 

“So,” I began, injecting my voice with some competitiveness as he matched my expression. “No show of skill’s worth doin’ if ya’ can’t bet on it, so, how ‘bout it, _vaquero?”_ Sniffing, I estimated my odds in the light wind. “Six shots. If you win…?” 

“I no pay for bullets.” He replied, bringing me to nod. 

“A’ight. Fair enough. If ya’ win, this’s all on me.” 

“...¿Y tú?” He led. “¿Qué deseas?” 

Contemplating— _and hoping I was remembering my interrogatives correctly_ —I tongued the inside of my cheek and studied the target. 

“...How ‘bout a _name,_ huh?” Astonishment spread over his face, and I flicked my eyes down at him. “...I win, and you spill it. We got a deal?” 

“Simón,” he replied, with a confounded nod. “Deal.” 

“Cool.” I clicked back the hammer, lifting my arm, smirking in warning. “Might wanna’ cover your ears.” 

He puffed out his chest. “No es nada que no haya oído antes, ¿recuerdas?” 

Hearing some _‘no’_ in there, I shrugged, steadying the gun with my second palm. With both eyes open, I focused on the front sight, before squeezing the trigger. The pin struck the bullet and the revolver boomed through the cliffs, piercing the target, spraying dirt behind it. My opponent immediately ducked down with bent knees, his hands darting reflexively to cover his head as I relaxed my stance and the gunshot dissipated. _It got a chuckle out of me._

“‘Kay,” I said, _shaking my head at the dumbass._ “You’re up.” 

He flexed his jaw, standing up again to reclaim some dignity. Cocking the pistol and raising it to eye-level, he concentrated and widened his footing, exhaling slowly—and firing. 

Our five exchanges rang out beneath a gradually bruising sky, the sun brushing Stilwater’s weatherworn contours beyond those fields and leaving us surrounded in the scent of gunpowder and late-afternoon heat. 

Pleased, we eagerly returned to the target we’d blown to shit with the stupidest looks on our faces, the new guy hanging around close behind me as I tugged it down. 

“A’ight; let’s see, here.” I prefaced as I stepped up on the rock, straightening the creased plastic over my knee. “Here’s me…you… _oh—damn,_ good one, man, ya’ hit it dead-on.” 

“You win,” he said, counting more eagerly than I did. Shrugging defeatedly, he scuffed his boot in the dirt as I stepped back, rolling it up. “Lo has machacado.” 

“Guess so. Hey, _good game.”_ I pepped, sensing that sore streak resurfacing. “Should come out here and do it again sometime, huh? Bring a cooler, or somethin’?” 

He nodded half-mindedly while staring at his old boots, the fear seeping back into his posture. “Hey—don’t sweat it, man. I’ve had a lot of practice.” _Yeah. Too much._ “Ya’ just started _now_ and did damn good for a newbie. Five outta’ six hit; I’d say the bastard’s _dead._ ” I saw his mouth twist a bit, settling into a reserved grin as he lifted his head. “OK?” I reaffirmed, trying to quell my own gut kicking. _Bad time to grow a fucking conscience._ “Ya’ did good.” 

He was about to say something, but my phone interrupted him with its familiar, condescending jingle. Holding up a finger, I reached into my back pocket— _nope—_ promptly searching the other. Finding it, I flipped it open. 

_Shit._

“Hey, man.” I answered, dipping aside. 

_“VK are makin’ a move near the shop.”_ Julius rumbled. _“I want you and the kid on it.”_

I turned away from the new guy’s prying gaze, my eyes jumping between the tufts of dandelions, muttering: “I don’t think it’s the _right time for that, yet—”_

_“Did you do what I asked?”_

“Wh— _yeah.”_ I replied, wrangling my scattering thoughts. “It’s done, but—” 

_“Then get a move-on. We help our own.”_

“Jules, I don’t—” Aggravated, I clenched my teeth and lowered my volume further, maintaining a nonchalant front. “I’ll take care of it _myself_ , or get _Gat to do it._ We ain’t even on _that side of town—”_

_“Where are you?”_

“That’s beside the point!” I waved at nothing, glimpsing the new guy raising an eyebrow at me. _“Look—”_

 _“He needs to get his feet wet, Troy.”_ He cut right to the chase, and I let my head hang at that _fucking reality,_ suddenly very aware of how how heavy _his cross was starting to get. “Call when it’s done.”_

“...Fine, yeah.” I relented, rubbing my forehead tiredly as I took the phone away. 

_If what he said was true—and he had little reason to lie—a lot more than just our lane at the bowling alley was at stake if the VK moved in. We were looking at a takeover, a historically contested area between the Carnales and VK, coming to a head now after Alejandro Lopez’s untimely passing. Chief Monroe wasn’t about to get in the way, either, and that was assuming SPD would even respond. No, between Mayor Winslow and King’s financial sway over him and the City Council, our hands were tied if anyone wanted to keep their jobs, homes, or lives._

_It didn’t leave any of us many options, least of all the new guy at the fulcrum of it all._

“...That was Julius,” I flippantly reported, walking to the car and tossing the target in the trunk. He briskly followed, alarmed, as I slammed it shut and threw open the passenger door. “...We got some cleanin’ up to do.” 


End file.
